


Grey

by softestpunk



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, and Shay and Haytham delighting in each other's existence, really this fic is just wall-to-wall softness, soft old men being soft with each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22197286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: Shay returns from a years-long absence to find Haytham changed. There was never any guarantee they'd grow old, let alone together, and he can't help but enjoy seeing that they have.
Relationships: Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway
Comments: 12
Kudos: 89





	Grey

**Author's Note:**

> My brain's new stress response is to vomit extremely sweet Shaytham fic I guess? I'll take it.

“You’ve gone grey,” Shay says, beaming at me and with such impossible joy in his voice, eyes sparkling in the light of the low-burned candle I’ve been working by these past hours.

Trying not to look out at the harbour, trying not to waste away the day wishing him home sooner.

It has been three years, the longest stretch of time he and I have been parted since I first met him.

I have felt every minute as an agony.

There is grey at his temples, too, but my hair has lost all of the black now, the last of it over the winter, and I would be a liar to say I had not wondered what Shay might think of me, truly an old man.

The warmth in his eyes brushes all such thoughts away as though I never had them in the first place.

“You seem taller,” I say, because he does. Imperceptible to most, I’d think, but I know Shay, I know his body as well as my own, I know his silhouette so well I could trace it from memory.

“New boots,” he says. “Wore a hole in the old ones. The French wear them with a bit more heel.”

Senses thrumming with anticipation, I stand and make my way around the desk, stopping in front of him, every muscle in my body coiled and eager to strike. To touch and hold and kiss, to spoil him with pleasure and contact and closeness after so long without.

He is still a touch shorter than me, and I smile as his chin tilts up ever so slightly.

“Laughter lines,” Shay barks excitedly, reaching out to touch me without nearly as much hesitation as I find myself showing.

I’m afraid that if I begin now I will not stop.

The lines have been there since the day we met, but they are deeper now, etched quite indelibly into my skin and present even when my face is at rest.

I know, I’ve spent long enough looking myself. My skin has gotten thinner and more delicate, all of my hair has gone grey—even in more intimate places, as Shay will undoubtedly discover soon enough. My middle has softened—not so much as most men my age, not even close, but still. The definition and visible strength of my youth is behind me.

I have passed my prime, and I know it.

The way Shay looks at me, though, suggests he has had no such thought. And he is as beautiful as ever, the light dusting of age on his charming features only serving to enhance them. He is the man I always knew he would be, no longer the stunningly pretty boy I fell in love with so long ago.

The touch of his fingertips against my skin is so gentle I might worry that he thought me fragile had I not had half a lifetime of being subjected to the peak of his desperation and the wonderful bruises that entails.

I can hardly wait to bear his marks again, but for now he seems content to trace my features as though he has never seen me before.

“We’re both old men, now,” Shay says, a tremble in his voice, the shine of tears welling up in his eyes.

I know Shay’s moods better than my own, and these are not tears of sadness. There is no dismay in what he says.

Instead, all I can hear is wonder.

“We might not have been,” he adds, and I begin to understand his thoughts. We live dangerous lives, both of us.

That we have made it this far is nothing short of a miracle.

“And yet,” I murmur in response, leaning closer to him, aching for our first kiss in three long years but willing to draw the moment out a touch longer, to _feel_ the ache, etch it into my bones and remember how lucky I am to have him, to have the affection of Shay Cormac, easily the most magnificent creature in the known world.

“And yet, here we are,” he says, smiling so brightly as to outshine the long-set sun.

When he kisses me it is like coming back to life, like breaking through the surface of a cold lake, like being struck by lightning. The joy of it _hurts_ , the dull ache of not having him replaced by the bright sting of having him, so close and so familiar even though so much time has passed.

As I feared, once I allow myself to touch him, I cannot stop. Not until I have pushed him down onto the rug by the fire and stripped him bare. Not until I am caught, breathless, staring at his skin stained golden by the flames, unable to move or speak or even _think_ while he smiles up at me, eyes glowing with warmth and affection and the eager swell of lust.

“I love you,” I whisper, unable to remember the last time I said it. Too great a risk to say such a thing in a letter, even in code. Did I say it before he left? I think I must have, but it’s been so long I have no hope of remembering.

Shay, I have no doubt, has catalogued each and every time I’ve uttered those words. There is almost nothing he enjoys more than unbridled affection and I cannot help but want to indulge him.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he teases, eyes alight with mischief.

Yes. Shay is at least as beautiful as he was the last time I saw him, if not more beautiful still.

He hums as I kiss him, clever fingers at work peeling off my remaining clothes, the touch of his bare skin on mine leaving trails of fire wherever we brush against one another until he rolls us both over, laughing into my mouth. His joy is infectious and I can feel it bleeding into my own chest, curling around my heart until it feels as though it might crush it.

But Shay is incapable of hurting me and I have never had to fear him.

We are neither of us too old to enjoy each other’s bodies, and the newness of discovery combines with the comfort of familiarity as our hands roam, seeking out secret sensitive places, mapping the changes we’ve been through since we were last naked together.

Shay has acquired a scar or two, and his thumbs discover the new softness of my belly as he laughs delightedly.

“I love you,” he murmurs against my lips as his fingers trail inevitably down.

Later, I will take him to my bed, spread him out on the sheets, and enjoy him for hours.

For now, this is enough, this reconnection after long years apart will satisfy us long enough to bathe and eat and settle before it is time to retire and relearn everything there is to know about each other.

Shay’s sweet gasp as he peaks is enough to push me over the edge so that we tumble into bliss together, tangled up like boys new to this and just barely beginning to explore our pleasure. Old though we may be, Shay never fails to make me feel young again, as though for just a few hours we are both carefree in the first blush of young love.

He is as exciting to me now as he was half a lifetime ago.

I roll us back over, forearms braced either side of his ears, leaning down to kiss him again as he tugs the ribbon from my hair and the freed strands cascade around my face.

Shay’s fingers dig deep and greedy into it, holding me in place as he licks his way into my mouth. As always, for him, one orgasm is mere foreplay, only enough to make him eager for more.

I will _always_ be eager for more of him, and so this has never put a strain on our relationship.

He combs my hair out with his fingers, mindful of pulling or tugging too hard, eyes glinting in the firelight as he holds a handful up for inspection.

“It’s beautiful,” he announces after a moment, though I am convinced he would never have come to any other conclusion.

I nuzzle the few silver strands at his temples and kiss his ear, gratitude that I have him welling up in my chest.

Few men, I think, have been as lucky as I have.

“I have so much to tell you,” I murmur. So many things, both serious and sentimental, things I can’t wait to share with him.

But they will wait. They will wait until the last of the ache of separation eases, and our heartbeats fall into step with each other once more.

For now, it is enough that we’re both exactly where we belong.


End file.
